


One True Friend

by Rehfan



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein - Nick Dear, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Fire, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not too soon after he is reborn, Creature meets soldier John after escaping the cruelties of the town.</p><p>John shows Creature compassion and kindness for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love

There are those that would say that I was mad, but having been born from madness, I can tell you truly that what my senses perceive is not only true, but accurate. I am a living thing made of flesh and bone, recreated by my maker to what end, I know not. Nothing was explained to me until later. And most of the explanations and conclusions that surrounded the mystery of my creation had to be extracted painfully from the mouth of my creator. And even then, it wasn’t enough.

I embarked on my journey of self-discovery only moments after my rebirth. I was abandoned and alone. The wilderness and the darkness were all I knew until… the sun. My new-old eyes took in a flaming orb that rose over creation and as I gazed upon its magnificence, I was to realize much later, that I was as Adam was in the Garden: naked, unashamed, and marveling at the world around me.

I knew no fear. I had no concept of danger. I was a true babe: innocent and curious. My heart was an open book for the universe to read. At first I did not seek guidance. I had no need of it. My only master was instinct. When I was hungry, I ate of what seemed good. When I thirsted, I drank when the rain came, opening my mouth to catch the waters as they fell. When I was cold, I had a robe. It was enough.

The concepts of fate and purpose did not affect me in those days. It was only after I met Man and received beatings from him and experienced fear – mine own and fear of others at my appearance – that I realized what dangers and ugliness there was in the world. My face was scarred and torn, but my appearance was nothing in comparison to the souls of those who greeted me with scorn and gnashing teeth. They were the uglier of the two of us in those days. There was no compassion for me until the soldier.

Even my own creator scorned me. I knew not why. It was later, after I had killed his brother that he attempted to explain the why of my creation. But we spoke at cross-purposes, I think. He spoke of science and progress. I merely wanted acceptance and love. He spoke in generalities of a greater world; I wanted the things that every ordinary human heart longs for – and in the end, we were both denied.

I have one advantage over that of the ordinary man: I knew my maker personally. He had a name and a face and a voice. He was my muse, my teacher, my master, and my god. All I wanted was to please him. But when we first met, I did not understand. My mind was not working fully. It was not my fault, nor was it the fault of my master, Frankenstein. We both did not fully comprehend what had happened – although Frankenstein should have. He was the one in control of my life. He was my creator. He should have known what I needed, what was required to care for me. Otherwise, why was I created?

I have no advantage over that of the ordinary man in that I could not get proper reasons for my existence from him. It is my understanding that the God that men worship in churches and in synagogues and in temples around the world also cannot provide clear answers regarding the ‘why’ of life. My master should have known why. He should have been ready for his ‘experiment’ to work. He should have… he should have loved me.

People wander this world with no physical perception of their God’s love, but they feel it all the same. I had nothing like this. My master did not love me. He was incapable of such a thing. But why create life out of body parts and then not love it? Did not the God that the people worship love His creations? Why did my master not love me?

I have the capacity to love. Many may not believe this, but be assured, it is true. The soldier welcomed me. He loved me. He was good to me. He was my only friend for a time. But he too left me. It wasn’t his fault. Love is not stronger than death. But I remember him. He was the only happiness I knew in this life, the only one that mattered.

If the God of the people is real, then I hope I will see him again. I have done such evil that I doubt it shall come to pass, but I still hope. I still want what every man wants: to love and to be loved. I hope that the God of the people is merciful to me. I hope He loves me as much as they say He does. I would like to see John’s face again -- even if it is for the last time before my soul is sent to torment everlasting in the searing forsaken bowels of Hell.


	2. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John welcomes Creature into his home.

When I came upon his home, he was cutting wood for his fire. He was strong and I watched him carefully as I knew that what could cut a tree with such accuracy could no doubt cut down the likes of me. I was still new to this world, but learning fast.

I did not properly learn to read and write and speak until I met the old man, De Lacey. The soldier, John, did not teach me such proper lessons. He was no professor. He was a man who had seen enough of the ugly side of life and who sought out the brighter side of day. He told me later that he had built the cabin himself, hewing the trees, setting the stones for the fire hearth, and making the furniture with his own two hands. He was very independent and he knew his own mind.

It was near dusk on the fourth day of my unseen visits to him when he suddenly turned and confronted me, “You! You there! What are you doing?”

I sat frozen to the spot. If he came toward me, I felt I would run. He took a step and my heart beat in my chest like a wild animal, yet I remained unmoved. He took another and called again: “You! I can almost see you. Come out! Come out this instant! I won’t have trespassers on my land!”

When he finished this speech, he was almost a yard from me. I stood slowly, revealing myself, and ready to run at the first sign of rejection and fear. His eyes met mine and for a moment I thought I was done for. John might have been shorter than me in stature, but he was by no means less of a man when it came to power. I knew he could catch me if he so desired, especially at so close a distance.

His gaze was filled with fear at first – only for a second. Then something changed behind his eyes. His expression lost none of its fascination, but his eyes became tender and wondrous. I felt that he must have seen something in me that the others overlooked. He took another tentative step forward and reached out his hand.

“Hello, friend,” he said softly.

No one had ever greeted me before this and I was out of my depth. What does one do when one is new to the world around him and unfamiliar with what is a usual and commonplace custom? I did the only think I could think of: I mimicked him.

When he took in the sight of me mirroring his motions, he smiled a wide smile and spoke softly to me again: “Hello, friend. You look as though you’ve had quite a time of things. I mean you no harm, only… I wonder if you mean me harm.” He took another step forward, causing our two outstretched hands to come into contact with one another. I regret to say that my hand came away from his at the contact and I shivered with the fear of the unknown.

John was kind. He comforted me: “Shhhh… It’s alright, my fine fellow. I shan’t harm you.” He set down the axe he had been holding, taking in my appearance and clothing and added: “You must be cold. And hungry as well. Come inside. We’ll eat.” He made a motion with his hands toward his mouth in a perfect mimicry of eating. “Eat. Come… eat.” He motioned with his hand for me to follow and as new as I was to human gestures, these seemed easy enough to interpret.

His home was small, warm, and modest. It consisted of one room and an ante-room used as a larder. The hearth took up one whole wall on the east, his bed was nestled to the side of it on the south. The room was dominated by a huge broad-boarded table with long benches for seats. There was a rocking chair by the hearth and to the side of the door to the larder, opposite his bed. It was this he guided me to as he moved about the room, setting down plates and cups and placing the kettle over the hearth to boil.

The chair was comfortable, but unusual to my senses as the rocking of it was unexpected and made me fearful until I acclimated myself to its sway. The warmth of the raging hearth fire felt good to me and I became quite drowsy. The combination of the rocking motions of the chair, the crackling of the fire, and the soft sounds of my companion shifting about in his larder behind me caused me to drift off to sleep within moments.

Vaguely I heard John humming as he came out from the larder. I heard soft gentle noises at my side but I was too sleepy and comfortable to care. My somnolence was disturbed only when John attempted to place a blanket over my knees. My eyes snapped open and my head jerked up. John was so close to me that it frightened me greatly and I leapt to my feet and held up my hands in defense, backing away toward the northeast corner of the hearth.

“My deepest apologies, friend,” began John. “Please…” He reached out his hand to me again; it was that same gentle friendly gesture as before. I lowered my hands and gazed at his face in the firelight. The open honesty of his features was captivating. I mirrored his gesture as a sign of trust.

“No,” he corrected me, “use your other hand.” Here he pointed at my right hand which was clutching my cloak closed at my neck. I looked at my hand stupidly and then back to his pointing finger. He opened his eyes a bit more, hoping that I would understand. I reached out with my right hand instead and he quickly gripped it in his own.

Instinctively, mistrusting his intent, I jerked away from him again. John looked hurt at this and tried again: “Friend, please… I mean you no harm. I only wish to show you a proper greeting.” He held his hand aloft once more. I recalled his touch from the first time. He was too hasty. He seemed to understand where he went astray and I gave him the benefit of the doubt and trusted in him in this second attempt at connection.

Tentatively, I brought forth my hand once more. He grasped mine gently this time, allowing me to adjust to the warmth of his touch. I recall being fascinated with the appearance of two hands clasping: they fit together so well, so harmoniously. It was then that I realized, in my vague and unformed way, that humans were meant to be together. I learned much later that men are social creatures, bound by instinct to dwell together with one another. The concept of a ‘city’ was beyond my ken just then, but the hint of epiphany was at the edges of my perception. I was beginning to learn from John what it was to be human.

My cries of joy were the first noises I made in his presence and John seemed fit to burst with pride at my happiness. “There you go, friend! Now that’s a proper greeting. And seeing as how you’re very much awake, perhaps you’d like to dine and then sleep?” He made a gesture toward the large table upon which sat an assortment of simple fruits and cheeses. “It’s not much,” said he by way of excuse, “but what I have is yours to share.”

Gently but firmly he gripped my hand, led me to the table, and bid me sit and eat, which I did with such wild abandon and ferocity that it seemed all my good and generous companion could do was stand back and watch me with fascination and just a trace of horror. “It’s as though you hadn’t eaten in your life,” he murmured.

Oh! Would it were that I had the mastery of speech necessary to tell the short tale of my existence! But no. It would have horrified my dear companion to no end and no doubt I would be thrown out into the wilderness for my trouble if he were to ever know of my origin. Any God-fearing person on this earth would be dumbstruck to learn of how I became me. But I was innocent then. I understood that I could not communicate with him but through gesture and grunting so my newly formed mind came up with a solution.

I paused in my repast long enough to dig into the folds of my cloak and hand him the book which I had found there in my first few hours on earth. He took it from me with a smile and I mimicked his grin, supposing it a good gesture to make. I must have looked a sight with cheese and apple smeared upon my face but good and kindhearted as he was, John merely grinned back at me without pointing out my faults.

He opened the book and I watched him curiously, eager to know what the dark marks on the paper had meant. He frowned as he flipped through the pages. “I’m sorry, friend. I have no formal education and can only read printed letters. This script writing is beyond what my meager brain can understand.” He handed the book back to me. We were both gravely disappointed.

It was only with this solemn moment that I realized just how much of the poor soldier’s supper I had consumed. I pushed what was left of the plate to him and sat with my hands in my lap, upset with myself at my greed. What was left he ate and gratefully. To the great credit of his character and good nature, he never chided me for my behavior at table saying instead: “Now that you’ve had a good meal, I expect that you’ll be needing a good rest as well. Why don’t you take my bed for a billet? It’s tolerably soft and will serve you nicely for a good night’s rest. Come.” He stood and gestured toward the bed.

I arose and wrapping my cloak tight about me, inspected the blanket and fur skin that was the covering. I had never before seen such a thing. He held up the goose-down pillow and placed his head upon it in order to show me its use. He then placed it on the bed again and held the coverings open, motioning for me to take my comfort inside. 

Gingerly I sat on the edge of the opened bed. John gently guided my feet up and into the folds of cloth and being positioned thus, he guided my body prone. When I was thus situated, he gently and carefully placed the blanket and skin over me and made sure that there were no gaps for cold air to get in.

During his gentle ministrations, I watched him in fascination and I am forever grateful to the God of man that I did for it is the one memory that I will always carry with me of John and his love for me. He accepted me on sight for no reason I could fathom even onto this day. He showed me the comfort of his home, shared the food of his table, and now in this moment, he was showing me the warmth of his bed and his heart in one gesture though he knew it not. If anyone had suspected that John’s heart was as big as it was, he would have been made a king on the spot. No one deserved a kingdom more than this man who was willing to take a lowly misshapen creature like me and give it shelter, food, and compassion.

John was the father I should have had. He was the brother I should have known. He was the boon companion with whom I should have shared my life. And I will miss him until the end of my days.


	3. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creature gets a bath. John gets a warning.

The birds in the trees outside roused me from my slumbers. My weary eyes looked about slowly and it was only with great concentration that I realized that I was with John in his home. My companion had found slumber in the rocking chair with his feet propped on the hearth. He had a blanket over himself and yet shivered with the cold. I knew not how fire worked, but I knew that I was warm. I wished for John to be warm as well.

Slowly I crept to him, not wishing to disturb his slumber. I found that if I were stealthy, I could get very close to him indeed. The quiet of early morning surrounded the room and provided a perfect means for me to get to view my companion at a much closer level.

He had a round jolly face with cheeks that plumped when he smiled. Fine lines on either side of his eyes bespoke of his wont to smile often. His skin was tanned with sun, but not burned. His hands were used to hard work; calluses rose on the webbing between finger and thumb from the axe and its heavy swing. His hair was a bit shaggy but clean. His stature was strong, but he was less in height than I. He smelled of clover and something else I could not place. His appearance pleased me greatly. So much so, in fact, that I almost cried out loud in joy at the wonderment of him, but I dared not wake him.

He had been so kind to me. I wished to repay him somehow. I wanted to warm him. I took the blankets from the bed and lay them over John. He moved in his sleep and I stood still, not daring to even breathe. He settled back and shook with cold no more. I was very pleased with myself that I could do this for him. It was such a simple gesture, but it held great meaning for me. It was my first act of kindness to another.

I sat on the bed and waited for him to wake. When it seemed that he would not, I looked about for other kind things to do for John. I recalled the food I had eaten so greedily the previous evening. I had seen food similar to that in the wilderness and in the nearby village: great vines with berries growing on their branches, apples hanging ripe from trees. All these and a few more useful foodstuffs grew just inside the village borders. If I moved quickly, the villagers who detested me so greatly would never detect that I had been there.

I rose to leave, giving my companion a final glance. He looked so peaceful that I hated to depart. A part of me wanted to stay and watch his soft features in the dawn’s early light. But I had to make up for my misdeed. Making John smile became my reason for existing that day. I was determined to see it through.

I returned to his cabin after two hours. I had gathered into the folds of my cloak fourteen apples, three chickens (which I had killed), berries of all shades and shapes, and a loaf of bread which someone had left on their windowsill to cool. I entered the cabin to find John exactly as I had left him. Unloading my burden onto the table, I made my way to him and gently roused him.

“Holy!” he exclaimed with a start. Had I frightened him with my appearance? I backed away from him and hid my face in my cloak hood.

“Oh!” said he, recovering from his fright, “I’m sorry, friend. Good morning! Have I slept the day away? And… do I smell bread?” He looked ‘round at the table with its treasures and gave a cry of surprise. “Where did this all come from then?”

I beat upon my chest to signify myself, correctly judging his question and the curious look on his face.

“You?” he asked me, pointing at the food and then at me, “You did this?” I grinned my widest smile at him. Curiously, he looked dismayed and gazed at the table. “You’ve stolen this food,” he said and turned to me, “haven’t you?”

I was confused. I did not understand his speech and had no concept of ownership of things. The only thing I knew was that John was not smiling at me. I wanted him to be happy. But he wasn’t. I had done something wrong. Perhaps the food was not to his liking? I could get other food. It was no trouble. I didn’t mind.

My mind was tearing itself apart to express my feelings. In the end, I did what any babe would who does not truly comprehend the import of its actions: I wept.

“Shhhh… there, there, friend,” said he in a kindly voice. He reached out with one hand to console me and let it rest gently on my shoulder. His touch was warm. It pleased me greatly. As a child would, I came to him and wrapped my arms about his chest, holding him to me and resting my head against his heart. To my great relief, he held me, cradling my poor head, rubbing my back soothingly, and murmuring sweetly to me that everything would sort itself out.

After a time, he sighed in a resigned way, kissed the top of my head as a father would a child, and released me. Affectionate touch should have been foreign to me yet in that short span of time that we were together I learned quickly that John would never touch me with rancor in his heart. He was proud to be my friend and forgave me my faults. My eyes met his as I searched his face for any trace of anger. There was none.

Gingerly he touched the great stitched scar on my face. Indeed, this was his first opportunity to see for himself and closely the great works of my creator. I felt his fingertip trace the sutures and watched his heart break slowly. “Who did this to you?” he whispered. Tears filled his eyes as he said to me: “Whoever did this was a demon. He should be punished for his crimes against you. Can you not tell me a name at least? Or at best, a name for you? Have you a name? But of course, you must have. Can you tell me your name?” I stared at him dumbly.

“Oh! But I haven’t told you my name, have I?” he smiled and tapped his chest, “John. My name is John. What is your name?” Again, I made no reply. He tapped his own chest once more and repeated: “John”. He then pointed at me and looked at me questioningly. I understood him in a hazy way, but could provide no answer. I attempted to communicate this to him through what sounds I could make and my posture. “No answer, then?” he said, dismayed. “Right. Then I shall call you ‘friend’ until you remember your name, for you are my friend,” he glanced at the table full of food, “or rather, you try to be.” He smiled at me warmly and it brightened my spirits. “Come, friend. Let us eat.”

After our repast which was decidedly more civilized than our first shared meal, John declared that I should probably want a bath. He produced an oblong tub out of the larder and made ready a good amount of water from a rain barrel outside, bidding me help him. With another great pot of water on the hearth, he made a steaming warm bath inside of an hour. After he heated the chill water with the stuff from the hearth, he went to his small well and drew more which he also placed on the hearth. I had no idea what he planned to do with all that water, but I watched the procedure with great fascination as John talked cheerily to me all the while.

I do not remember his conversation to me, but the tone of it was pleasant and his motion so smooth that I was captivated nonetheless. He moved about his little cabin as a matron would her patients. All the while, I sat upon his bed and let him talk. I wondered in an unformed way why he was alone. How had he come to live such a way from the village and where was his company? And then I fancied that I was his company now and that pleased me greatly. I must have smiled at this thought because John stopped what he had been doing and looked at me curiously then smiled gently.

Finally he said: “It’s all set.” He bid me come to the tub and motioned for me to get in the water. He moved behind me and attempted to take my cloak from my shoulders. I turned at this and he backed away from me with his hands up. “No harm meant, friend. Shhhh… You must take this off before you can get clean. Please.” Slowly, I let the cloak slip from my body.

In the weeks I had existed, I had known that I was different. I had known that my appearance had struck fear and terror into those that beheld my face. No one had ever seen the whole of me besides my creator and the god of Man. I had thought I had accepted the judgment of men; that I was unclean, unfit, and tainted. I thought that I was too. It was of no consequence to me – until that moment. I stood there naked before John and comprehended the look in his eye instantly. I shall never forget it. It was horror mingled with pity.

I had never felt so ashamed of my appearance.

The words didn’t form clearly in my head, but the emotion was as if my soul cried out to his: “Please don’t reject me. Please love me anyway. Please.” Tears welled in my eyes. All I could do was wait.

He gazed upon my face and allowed tears to flow down his cheeks. “I’m so very sorry, my friend,” said he quietly. He moved closer to me and placed a hand over the scar on my chest where my heart beat madly and out of rhythm. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t going to condemn me. I was so relieved that I cried out and reached for him to hold him closely. He reached up and wrapped his arms around my neck, cradling my head, holding me close and gently rocking me in his arms. My arms wrapped around his chest and I buried my face in his neck. We both cried like two children lost in a wood: he cried from agony; I from relief.

He released his hold on me once our tears had stopped and kissed me on my face right over the great scar. “No one will ever harm you again, friend. That’s a promise. Do you understand? A promise.” I was so exhausted from my experience that I allowed him to guide me into the bath without protest.

The water was steaming and warm. It was a wonderful experience. John rubbed some soap on a cloth and washed my back, being careful of the sutures and cleaning what he could of my wounds. I sat motionless and allowed him to care for me, watching his face as he concentrated on his task. It was then that I realized that I loved him.

I had no true concept as to what love was or what it means to be in love. I was an instinctive creature then. I could only judge such a thing by the racing of my heart and a feeling like I could do anything in the world at that moment in time. These were the signs of love to me. And as I watched him wash my feet and scrub my legs, I felt fit to burst with the strength of my love for this man.

John had just added the second warmed pot of water to my bath when there was a knock at the door. We both stared at one another and John quickly motioned for me to remain still and quiet. He set the pot down and went to the door, stepping outside to speak to the visitor.

I was not privy to the whole of his conversation with the villager, but I recalled the man’s voice later when they came for me. I think that’s why I killed him first. He was the harbinger of our doom.

“…creature wandering about the wood… six foot tall… shaped as a man, but with a horrid aspect… son of the devil…kill him… stolen food… chickens gone missing… women are frightened… it’ll be the children next…”

John murmured his answers, I could not catch them. The other man’s voice was angry in his hatred. I could feel his malicious intent without seeing his visage but I could, in my small experience of life, imagine his countenance. He would be big, burly, and gruff with a wide face and dark eyes and his anger would know no bounds; should anyone gain his ire he would not scruple to strike out against them, be they man, woman, or child. A shiver ran through me as I sat in the bath.

John closed and bolted the door. He watched the man leave through the window in the larder, the only one that faced west and back toward the village. As soon as he was satisfied that the man had gone, he came to me carrying a robe I did not recognize for it was his own. He bid me stand and I could tell from the way he sat me in the rocking chair and bent to the fire, stoking it into a lively flame, that he was upset by the villager’s visit. I reached out to him asking the question with my eyes. He turned and faced me with a look of regret and dismay that spoke volumes.

John had taught me so much over the last day. I felt that I owed him a debt of gratitude. I could never actually repay him in full for his kindness, but to not attempt to repay the man at all seemed a greater sin than giving back a small portion of that which was owed. I stood and held him as he held me before: his head to my chest, my hands cradling him, holding him closely.

I was newly formed, but not born a fool. We were both going to be in terrible trouble if anyone from the village suspected my presence in John’s home. I knew I had to leave.

I released him and removed his robe, donning my old cloak. I gave him one last disparaging look, a sad smile, and made for the door, expecting to never return. In an instant, John blocked my path. He knew my intentions. He could see that I understood the situation clearly. He shook his head and held onto me tightly.

His words at that moment have echoed in my heart my whole life long: “I won’t let you leave. I gave you my word. I intend to keep it. You are my friend. And no one will ever hurt you again as long as I live.”


	4. Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The village is on the lookout for the misshapen man.

The larder was filled with food enough for the two of us for at least a few days, but John felt the need to go into the village to assess the situation there. People had seen me and suspected me of crimes of which I was guilty. I readily admit I was the one who stole food, but innocent as I was, I did not understand that what I did was wrong. I had no concept of right and wrong in those early days. This was another thing that John had taught me.

After he and I had calmed ourselves from the angry villager’s visit, John had some time to create a plan: he would go to the weaver for some winter blankets as a ruse to explain his presence in town. “I can get an idea of the mood of the town after that. Ask the shop owner what he thinks of the mysterious stranger. The man who came and spoke to me is a bit of a rabble-rouser. He could cause trouble for us if he finds you here. But I promise you, friend: he’ll not best me in a fair fight.”

He knew I did not understand his speech, but my mind was becoming used to relating to another person and I could distinguish his wants and desires through hand signals and body language. Using this rudimentary form of communication, he told me that he regretted leaving me and worried that I would leave during his absence. I understood from his tone that he wished for me to remain. I pointed to myself and then to the ground to indicate to him that I would stay behind.

He sat next to me on the bed and smiled sadly before he departed. I fell into his arms with a look of regret. I knew that I was the cause of this trouble. He held and rocked me soothingly for a time, stroking my face and my back.

Finally he released me, once again kissing the top of my head sweetly. I looked up and kissed his mouth. It was chaste, as kisses go, and fleeting, my lips brushed his for barely a moment. I had no notion that this was not proper. John had kissed my head and my face. I simply kissed his face in return. I was not aware of the different codes of conduct when it came to amorous expression; I simply acted on whim and instinct.

His face wore a shocked expression at first, but then he smiled and kissed me back, simply and earnestly. His lips lingered on mine for more than a mere moment and suddenly I was breathless. His eyes beheld my visage with no ridicule, no disgust. It dawned upon me in my unformed mind that John had felt that same surge of infallibility and energy when one is enamored with another. John loved me back.

In a day we had met, bonded, and fallen in love. This may seem odd to some and impossible to most. I have seen some of the world now and can understand clearly why others would be skeptical as to the depth of our feelings after so short a time together. I do not blame them. I did not realize how rare we were. Had I but known that all would change after John, that my life would become the tragic cat-and-mouse between my maker and I, I would have died as well and gladly.

John was the only one good and true person I would ever know. And more than that: he was also the only one whose love I would readily accept without question. All the world’s poetry was not enough to express the multitudes of happiness I felt when we were together.

This would be our first time apart from one another since our initial meeting. When the door closed behind him, I decided to sleep. It would be the only thing I could do that wouldn’t result in my causing harm to myself or to John’s things. If I rested here in the lazy afternoon of a chilled autumn season, I knew I would awake to John’s smile and everything would be alright again.

As I said, my brain was young and unused to thinking proper thoughts. All I could formulate were impressions of things that surrounded me. Looking back now, it is much easier to realize what my thoughts were as I have learned the ways of Man and his great capacity for cruelty and I also remember how very different John was from them. I will attempt, therefore to disclose what thoughts ran their course in my mind as I sat alone in John’s bed. I have discovered that the clarity that comes with hindsight is a useful tool.

I lay down listening to the birds in the trees outside and attempted to let slumber take me. It would not come. I thought of John heading out to that awful town where everyone hated me. I prayed that he would be quick in his assessment of the situation so that I would not be alone. I did not want to be alone. Alone was… well, lonely.

If I was right, everyone there would be condemning me. I could hear in my mind’s eye John’s voice asking the townsfolk what great harm did I do, after all? I stole fruit, three chickens, and a loaf of bread. This was a crime to them, it’s true. But did it deserve capital punishment?

John was my one true defender. I hoped they would not hate him for loving me.

But then, John was different -- like me. My aspect frightened them. It did not frighten John. What did that say about John? That he was better than those villagers? That he was somehow broader of mind and wider of spirit than even the most Christian of dwellers in that little hamlet? I believe now that it was true.

As I said, John was not one of them. There was no way he could convince that small provincial town that I was a harmless innocent when their childlike nightmares were filled with visions of a misshapen man with a scarred face ready to rape their women, eat their children, and burn their homes to the ground. To them I was a monster, a creature, a nothing. They were frightened of me which caused them to hate me and they were completely at ease with their hatred. Hate came easily to them. And even at that early stage, I knew that hate was dangerous.

I hoped at the time that he would be wise and say nothing of me. He said that he just wanted to listen. I shut my eyes tightly and tried not to imagine the sun setting and John not being home. My soul cried out: ‘Return to me, John. Please. I’m here alone. I miss you. I need you. Please return to me.’

Sleep must have overtaken my poor frightened mind, because I awoke to the door being unlocked and a very upset John walking through. He raced to me and embraced me tightly, lying in the bed with me fully dressed.

“Oh dear God,” said he, “my poor friend. We’re done for. If they discover you here ever, I don’t think I shall be able to stop a mob.” Once again, his words were lost on me, but not his tone. My instincts about the townsfolk were right again: they did condemn me. They hated me. I was too different.

I took his poor head in my hands and pitied him for his pain. I wasn’t anyone he should trouble over, but I couldn’t leave him, or he me. We were bound, he and I. I couldn’t go anywhere without my John. I needed him to teach me about life. I almost felt ready to speak. I could mimic his body; perhaps I could mimic his voice sounds as well? I would try to do this for John. He was everything to me.

I kissed him softly as I gazed upon him. He held me tightly and pressed into the kiss, making it all the more sweet. He rested his head on my chest and I stroked his back and nuzzled into his hair. My most precious John… How could I have not known? Even in my young stage of life, how could I have not suspected the evil that was to befall us?

But I had no suspicions of that nature. I only knew that John was warm and comfortable and home. And that John was everything to me. I would never leave him. Let them come. Let them try to tear us apart. I would kill them all.

 

~080~

 

John’s ruse had worked. He placed an order with the weaver for a winter blanket, telling the weaver that his old one was becoming threadbare. The old man had told him to come back tomorrow to pick it up. John attempted to tell me all this through our unique way of communicating. He held up objects or made motions with his hands and I nodded if I understood. It was a good system.

I didn’t want him to leave me again tomorrow, but in order for no one to suspect anything, he had to go. I was frightened of the village. I didn’t want John anywhere near those awful people. John was mine and I was his and we would find a way to live without the villagers. But John reasoned that we would have to in order to live properly. And besides, if he suddenly stopped going into the village for supplies, they would send someone here to check on him and then we would really be in trouble.

I moaned my frustration and sadness at this realization. I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted to be alone with John. Why was that so difficult?

John was the only one who was capable of allowing me to forget my scars. I’ve been screamed at and frightened half out of my wits by others that I’ve frightened unintentionally. With John there was none of that. His hearth was warm, his bed comfortable. He was not afraid of me or my appearance. He loved me. John was all I needed in this life to be happy.

 

~080~

 

I had never before tasted roasted chicken. It was wonderful. John smiled at me as I tore into another piece, filling my belly and rendering me contented and sleepy. We both had spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to forget what had happened in the town. It was evening and as supper ended and I attempted to help him in the washing up, he smiled at me and half to himself said: “How could anyone think you a monster? Your appearance is daunting, yes… but if you’ve been in the wars as I have, you’ve seen men torn apart before your very eyes. I suppose when I first saw you, I saw all those men I couldn’t save from death. I needed to help you more than I needed to run you off. I would have worried myself sick over you if I had done that.” He sighed. We finished the cleaning what dishes we used and settled before the fire, I in the bed and he at the rocking chair.

“Do you have any idea how important you are to me?” he asked. I looked at him, enjoying his tone and his face, but not truly understanding the import of his words. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He came to me and kissed me softly. I smiled at him.

I liked kissing John. If felt as though it were a natural extension of my existence: breathing, blinking, kissing. His mouth was warm and soft and he tasted of… John. I hadn’t the life experience to relate his kiss to anything I knew. Even today after all these years, I can’t accurately estimate what he tasted like. It was akin to warm wine, but it wasn’t quite that either. There was nothing in this world like him and I despair when I think of him this way. Do I know what I meant to him? Dear God of Man, I only wish I could tell him what he meant to me.

“It’s meant to be quite cold tonight, so I’ll take the fur and you take the blanket and we’ll stoke the fire up, shall we?” said he, settling in for the evening. He took the fur off of the bed and I watched him wrap it around himself and stoke the fire. He motioned for me to get in the bed and settled back in the chair.

This seemed ridiculous to me. Why, he was just in the bed with me and fully clothed that afternoon! Why couldn’t he do the same for the evening until the morn? I threw the blankets aside and went to him, taking the fur in one hand and his arm in the other. He attempted to object, but I was determined. I took his heavier clothing from him and after a moment he knew that I would have my way, so he relented.

Finally, with him stripped to the waist with the exception of some light breeches, he and I were resting in the bed together. “Goodnight, friend,” he murmured into my forehead. I rested my head against his chest and he held me gently, our bodies falling together naturally.

It was tolerably warm and very comfortable, especially considering that this was the connection that seemed to be missing from our relationship until now. John cradled me with such tenderness as befitted a father or a friend but there was a different depth of feeling, a more complete expression present in the room; he held me as a lover would his beloved. Such bliss that my heart had never known settled in my soul and allowed me restful slumber for the remainder of the night.

Indeed, slumber overtook us so vehemently that we slept until late morning. Neither one of us even heard the weaver’s boy knock at the door. Nor did we hear him enter the cabin. He had come to tell John that his blanket would be ready by that evening instead of the afternoon, but when he saw us together, he ran like a bat from the bowels of hell to inform the village that John was in league with Satan incarnate.

We slept peacefully through it all, completely unaware of what cruelties were in store for both of us.


	5. Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creature and John are found out.

That afternoon John left for the village to retrieve the blankets that the weaver had promised. He returned within an hour’s time with a broken arm, a twisted ankle, broken ribs, his shirt and chest slashed open, and his face and chest beaten to a bloody pulp.

John fell into the cabin and collapsed on the floor. He gasped for breath as a wave of pain hit him. I did not know what to do to help him. I attempted to pick him up, but he cried out in pain and it frightened me. I dropped him without meaning to. He cried out again and I despaired at my inability to understand how to help him best.

He was my only friend and I was terrified. Blood was everywhere: on him, on me, on the floor in widening pools. I tried again: I picked him up more carefully this time and he was calmer, but I think he held back on his cries so as not to frighten me again. Even in the midst of unendurable pain, he was kind to me.

I placed him gently on the bed and looked to him to guide me as to what to do. His chest wound seemed the most serious and I had never seen anyone’s blood before, not even mine own. I was fascinated and repelled by the sight of it all at once. The smell of it tickled my nose and I could taste it in the air. It trebled my anxiety.

John could see my panic I think, because he took hold of the blanket and pressed it to the wound, taking my hand and pressing it over it to staunch the blood. He suppressed another cry as I pressed on ribs that had to be broken. As soon as I realized that it was I that was injuring him further, I stopped released my hold on his wound. He shook his head wordlessly and placed my hands firmly over the wound once more. The bleeding did not stop, but it was slowed. Slowed enough so that John felt calmer and attempted to relate to me what had happened to him upon his entering of the weaver’s shop.

“I don’t know how they found out, friend,” he began through tense breath, “but they knew that I was giving you shelter. I entered the weaver’s shop and there were four of them: the weaver, his boy, the villager that came to me the other day, and one other man that I know to be a rogue and a drunkard. They accused me of conspiracy against the village. They even accused me of lying with you. They equated it to sleeping with the Dark Master himself.” Here he looked as if he were going to cry, “They jumped me all at once, right there in the shop. Had there been one, perhaps two, I could have had some sort of a chance. I’m not afraid of fighting. But they had four. The boy is not yet a man, but not a child. Even he lent a hand or a foot in beating me.”

“Someone must have seen us. Oh… it doesn’t matter anymore.” His face held despair and resignation. I did not like it, not one bit.

“Fear is a powerful enemy,” he murmured thoughtfully, “It can break the best of men and cause them to perform the most evil of acts, even onto their own kind.”

“They’re probably going to come after you,” he said, perking up a bit as he realized the amount of time that had passed. “You need to leave this place. Go far away. I’ll be alright. Please go.” He made common enough gestures so that I could understand him. But leaving his side was the last thing on my mind. I wanted him to be well again. I wanted to take care of him, for his pain to pass.

I shook my head at John when he urged me to leave. I stuck out my chin in grim determination and stubbornness. Picking out a small part of his face that wasn’t bruised purple, I placed a gentle kiss on his skin.

“Don’t be a fool,” he urged, “Leave me. I’ll be fine. You must go. Save yourself! I love you and I want you to live. Please, friend.” I knew he was begging me again to part from him, but I would not be moved. I shook my head at him again, determined to care for him, despite any trouble that four men could bring about.

What my simple mind could not grasp at the time was that there would not be just four men to contend with; there was the entire village that would gladly slit our throats and burn the cabin to the ground if they suspected that I was there. They would come after John again and this time, because there would be all the men of the village turned out, they actually might succeed in destroying him. But I could not think that broadly or that far ahead. It was only when I heard the mob in the distance that I knew I would not have a simple skirmish to face, but a battle.

 

~080~

 

The blood had not stopped, as I had said, but with the blanket from the bed, it was staunched enough to prevent John from dying immediately. I managed to leave him long enough to get some water and some clean rags from the larder. He drank some water and then poured the remainder on his chest in a feeble attempt at cleaning his wounds, but all was in vain. We needed a medical man with us in order for John to have a fighting chance. His chest was ripped open in one place low on his abdomen and it was there that his innards threatened to pour from his body. I felt helpless.

The minutes ticked by and we spent them gazing at each other, each man equally aware of the hopelessness of the situation. Kisses and fond caresses were exchanged. We each knew what we meant to the other. This was our final farewell. No matter how this played out, we both knew that I might be killed and John would definitely die. I was to lose him forever.

Keeping the pressure up on the wound, I leaned in close and placed my forehead to his. I can still recall how frightened he looked. I attempted to soothe his worried brow with kisses and soft sounds of comfort. “I love you, friend,” said John softly. “Do you understand?” He kissed me gently. “I love you.”

“I… love… you,” I mimicked in my childish way. John’s eyes flew wide and he smiled at me and laughed. A trickle of bright red blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and the light went out in his eyes. He stopped breathing. He stopped moving. He was dead.

I cannot recall how long I stayed in that position: my hands on his belly, bent to him, watching his eyes for any sign of life. What I can say is the sound of approaching villagers stoked a fire in my soul that has yet to die out. I gave a loud cry and ran from the cottage toward them. I knew the one that I wanted to kill.

I had never seen his face, but I was sure that he would be the one leading the rabble to John’s door. And I knew his voice: the voice of the devil himself.

Sure enough, the head torch-bearer was he. But his appearance was surprising: medium height, barrel-chested, with light features, he was a far cry from the virile image my poor brain had conjured up. But he had the same eyes. They were the eyes of a pig or a weasel: black, beady, and itching for the sight of blood.

I leapt from the wooded trail and came at him head-on. He held up his torch at the last minute. I batted it away from him with one arm and reached for his throat with the other. I recalled seeing the women of the village killing chickens and thought myself strong enough to kill this man in the same fashion.

He fought me, kicking and gasping. I stomped at his feet, attempting to crush his bones under my heel. I shook the torch from his hand and bit into his shoulder. His cries of pain brought me great delight. My hand tightened around his throat and I turned him around to face his compatriots. My rage was exquisite.

Through it all I saw the image of my John. I saw his kindness and his generosity, his understanding and his faith. It made me all the more angry to know that it was all gone. These people had taken that from me. I would never forgive them. Never.

I thought the other villagers would come to his aid, but none raised a hand against me. In the end, they simply watched me snap the man’s neck. By the time I had seen what I had done and looked to them, they were all backing away from me. I watched as the last man retreated quietly back to the village. I stood there in the clearing and shook in my anger.

The dead man at my feet was a pathetic little thing. His death had not brought my John back. It never would. And then my addled mind struck upon a new and more distressing thought: what would John have said about this? He would have been upset, I knew. I wept and picked up the torch. It glowed softly and showed me the way back to the cabin where John’s body lay.

I sat in mourning over him until daybreak, weeping and cursing my animal impulses, bemoaning my fate. In the end, nothing in that cabin was mine save my cloak and the book. Not even John’s body. The most important part of him was gone from me forever. I covered his face with the bloody blanket and the fur, set his bed aflame with the torch I had set by the hearth, and closed the cabin door behind me.

Standing high upon a ridge, I could see the village. I could also see John’s cabin as the first flames peeked through the trees. I watched it burn until the building was consumed. There was nothing in this world for me now except to find the only other person who could possibly have any feeling for me: my master Frankenstein. I vowed to find him. If there was one man responsible for the pain of my life, it was he.

I turned my back on the smoldering spot where the little cabin once stood, and as I did, I felt my heart harden.


End file.
